


This Land Is Yet Ours

by justhush (fragilehuge)



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-13
Updated: 2016-03-13
Packaged: 2018-05-26 08:57:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 705
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6232408
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fragilehuge/pseuds/justhush
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Arthur's just staring. From the top of the hill, the carnage in the valley below looks small, almost like a model, like something carved out of wood.</p><p><em>It's still enough to be wood</em>, Merlin thinks, and wishes he hadn't.</p>
            </blockquote>





	This Land Is Yet Ours

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted in 2009.
> 
> Original author's notes:
> 
> This fic is inspired by a gorgeous drawing by searains titled [This Land Is Yet Ours](http://searains.livejournal.com/11628.html). (And probably inspired by the drawing she did of Arthur as well, because it made me think about Arthur as _king_ , instead of a prince). Beta'd by mithrel.

Below him, Merlin can see the ruins of the town. It not even a _town_ , really, just a camp, just a little settlement of people—and Merlin can't believe how wrong everything's gone, can't believe he let this happen again. Maybe if they'd travelled faster, things would be different, or if he had just—He cuts off the train of thought. There's no point.

Merlin shuts his eyes and sees a serpent, huge and awful, slithering across a field. He sees the woman controlling it, the malicious way she wields her powers. He sees her laugh, head tossed back. Merlin can almost hear her voice. He opens his eyes.

Arthur's just staring. From the top of the hill, the carnage in the valley below looks small, almost like a model, like something carved out of wood.

 _It's still enough_ _to be wood_ , Merlin thinks, and wishes he hadn't.

He tries not to notice the bodies strewn through the camp. He already knows that no one's alive. They've done _this_ —arrived too late—enough times to know that. But Merlin still opens his mind, searching for something down there, even a little pinprick of life.

When Arthur glances at him, Merlin can only shake his head. He sinks down to sit on the grass, decides against putting his head in his hands or rubbing at his eyes. He doesn't do it because Arthur _can't_ , wouldn't allow himself to, not when he's King and there are a thousand knights at the bottom of the hill waiting for his command.

“I thought we'd...” Everything about Arthur's voice is _terrible_ , wretched and awful and Merlin wishes there was something he could do. “We were making good time. I thought we'd make it before—” He stops himself, but Merlin doesn't need to hear the rest.

He's about to voice his doubts about this stupid campaign, to tell Arthur there isn't any hope, they're up against something bigger than them, something too big, when Arthur says, “We're going to get her, you know. She can't run forever.”

Merlin breathes out slowly, and wishes Arthur didn't sound so sure. He hears the horses, unsettled by the stillness, letting out impatient snorts from behind them, down the hillside a ways. “Whoa, girl,” one of the knights says, quietly, like he's not sure if he's allowed to speak. Everything is still, so still, and Merlin isn't sure if he's allowed to speak, either.

“We should get moving,” he says, because it's silly to think he's not allowed to speak. He's the second most powerful man in Camelot, and Arthur would never forbid him anything. Of course Merlin is _allowed_. He almost wants to snort, but he can't, can't stop staring at the tents, ripped and black with blood and venom. Uncurling his fingers is an effort.

“Yes,” Arthur says softly, voice rough. Merlin raises his palm, fingers consciously relaxed, and the sky explodes all at once. The camp catches on fire almost instantly, and Merlin can't bring his eyes from the blaze, painfully bright against the night sky. If the horses are making noise, Merlin can't hear them over the crash of thunder, the crackle of the encampment burning away.

It only takes a moment for everything to be reduced to ash, and with another flick of his wrist, rain begins pouring from the sky, over the camp and nowhere else. Dark streams of water and black ash form, cutting through the valley, rushing towards a river nearby, leaving the horror of the ruined camp behind. This moment is almost religious, is sacred in new and different ways every time they have to do it. Every time Merlin hopes it's the last.

Arthur's head is dipped, like he's saying a prayer. He might be.

“Let's go,” Merlin mumbles, and Arthur nods once before they turn around. The knights stand idly below them, waiting for orders.

“Speed is essential,” Arthur booms at his men. The men are still, too. Reverent. Merlin wants to scream at them to move, just to make sure they still can. “We'll move through the night. This won't happen again. We won't let it.”

The cheers are deafening, and Merlin just breathes, tipping his head up to look at the stars.


End file.
